


Fun Drabbles. Because I can.

by SneakyHufflepuff



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, F/M, Fluff, Food, Friendship, Gen, Stakeout
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SneakyHufflepuff/pseuds/SneakyHufflepuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contains fluff, donuts and drunkeness. And Steve + Natasha friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to America

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cliché busting: the cliché that Natasha isn't friends with anyone on the team except Clint.

Between Captain America's spangly suit and shiny shield most Americans look up to him as the embodiment of everything USA. Every time he opens his mouth at a press conference he seems to say something brimming with honesty and American values, so much so that he’s used to being quoted and has developed what he feels is an excessively enthusiastic fanbase.

Steve Rogers feels like a fish out of water. It's not the big things that throw him. He can handle the internet and advances in technology just like he handled the serum and HYDRA. It's the little things. The clothing, more valuable but less valued. The language. He can speak English, at least he thought he could, but sometimes he feels like he's quoting Shakespeare to infants. So when Clint teases Steve for the millionth time about an old-fashioned word ("Scram") Steve retreats to his room to brood. He doesn't see Natasha throw Clint a glare behind his back. 

He sits on his bed and states blankly at his sketchbook. A light knock alerts him to Natasha’s presence on the other side of the door. He has to think about it for a second before he lets her in.

“Hey,” she says, looking at him thoughtfully from the doorway.

“Hey,” Steve replies, stepping back to let her in. He tries to look cheerful but only succeeds in giving Natasha a small smile.

An awkward silence descends on the room. Natasha is the first to break it.

“When I first came here I didn’t understand half the idioms that people used, so I stayed quiet and pretended that I did. Then people started thinking of me as the quiet and reserved Russian. No matter how many bar fights I got into or how many jokes I told I couldn’t shake that image.”

Steve understands what Natasha is trying to do, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. “Look Natasha, thanks for coming to talk to me, you’re a good friend. But I just want to be alone for the next few hours.”

“Okay. I’ll just give you something to think about before I go. We still live in the same country you grew up in. We live in a country founded on the idea that people can rule themselves. I think that’s remarkable,” Natasha says, warmth in her voice.

Steve does feel better at that. He smiles at her and she moves to leave.

“And I’m sorry about earlier, Clint is sometimes.” She pauses and cocks her head as she tries to find the right word. “Thoughtless.”

“Sometimes I wonder why you keep him around,” Steve jokes.

“He’s great in bed. You would not _believe_ the things he can do with his tongue.” Natasha winks and Steve chokes. “Fun fact. Here people talk about their sex lives but don’t talk about the War in Afghanistan. Welcome to America.”


	2. Food of the Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Natasha disagree about the relative value of donuts.

Natasha rubbed her stomach. It felt both bloated and empty after the two donuts she'd eaten against her better judgement. Clint was happily munching away at his fourth donut, eyes intent on the warehouse entrance. Natasha started to tap on the steering wheel, bored out of her mind. She hated stakeouts; a successful one meant hours of waiting in an enclosed space and no shooting at the end.

Clint reached over and grabbed her hand to stop her fidgeting. “Bored?” he asked.

“Yes,” Nataha replied grumpily. She could be in a warm bath with a good book right now if Coulson hadn’t ordered S.H.I.E.L.D's best two agents to keep tabs on a minor drug lord. “Is Coulson punishing us?” she asked Clint.

“A little,” Clint admitted, intertwining his fingers with hers, focus still locked on the warehouse.

“For what?” Natasha asked, trying to hide the fact that the simple skin to skin contact was making her heart race.

Clint smirked as he noticed Natasha’s reaction. “Coulson knows everything, Nat. Everything. It’s just his way.”

“So in other words he gave you a disappointed look and you spilled everything. You’ve had anti-interrogation training. Why didn’t you use it?” Natasha asked, pulling her hand away.

“I can take days of torture. Just not Coulson’s disappointed look.” Clint shrugged, unrepentant.

Natasha huffed and crossed her arms.

“He doesn’t care about frat regs, he just wants to know all the variables before he puts us in the field." Clint ran his hand down her upper arm in reassurance. “We’ll be fine. The world won't end now that someone knows.” He finally moved his attention from the warehouse to look at her searchingly.

“Clint, you need to be more circumspect if this is going to work,” Natasha told him, leaning into his touch and meeting his blue eyes with her green.

“If circumspect means discreet, then sure, I can do that. But it would perfectly normal for two incredibly attractive partners, who were completely platonic friends, to make out in a car to maintain their cover.” Clint leaned in for a kiss and Natasha turned her head away.

“I feel sick and gross from the donuts. I’m not kissing you,” she said.

Clint pouted. “Donuts are food from the gods. And the perfect stakeout food.” He grinned, eyes lighting up. “It’s like we’re in an eighties cop show.”

“I love how you say that like it’s a good thing.” Natasha laughed. “But, just so you know, my body is a finely tuned precision instrument of death. Donuts mess it up. Next time we’re on a stakeout, I pick the food.”

“Food of the gods, Natasha. Food. Of. The. Gods,” Clint said earnestly.

“Repeating yourself doesn’t make your argument any more compelling. Especially since you say pizza and ice cream are food of the gods. In fact, you say that about all food that has more sugar, salt or fat than substance,” Natasha told him tartly.

Clint sniffed. “Well if you’re going to be a Philistine, why bother? I’ll just have to share my culinary offerings with Arrow. At least he appreciates me.”

“I’ll appreciate you after a decent meal with at least something green in it” Natasha said. “And a hot shower,” she added as an afterthought.

“There was green icing on one of the donuts,” Clint pointed out.

Natasha looked at the multicolored icing that was still smudged on Clint’s fingertips, an eyebrow raised.

“Just saying. Also, can I appreciate you _during_ the shower?” Clint asked.

“Maybe.” Natasha answered, putting her hand on Clint’s thigh, a hint of a smile on her lips.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint makes poor life choices. Including being drunk around Natasha.

Clint was drunk. Really really drunk. So drunk he had forgotten why getting drunk around Natasha was a seriously bad idea. The last time it happened he had woken up in a zoo with no memory of how he'd gotten there. The time before that involved a tattoo and semi-permanent blonde hair dye.

“You’re so smart. And sooo beautiful,” Clint told his partner as he sprawled on her couch.

“That’s nice,” Natasha told Clint, setting a glass of water in front of him. She had drunk just as much as he had to celebrate their fifth successful mission, but she held it better, only showing her slight inebriation in the deliberately careful way she moved.

“You’re such a bookworm,” Clint said, looking around at her wall to wall bookshelves.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Natasha moved to the sink to get her own glass of water.

“It’s an awesome thing.” Clint vaguely wished he wasn’t a chatty drunk before the thought wafted away from him again.

“Do you even read?” Natasha asked, amusement lacing her voice.

“I read... stuff. All the time.”

“Go to sleep Clint.”

“You know what we’d be awesome at, Tasha?” Clint's thoughts were bouncing from place to place, but came always circling back around to Natasha.

“I think we make a great team,” Natasha said, with a hint of warning in her voice.

“Sex. We’d be really good at that.”

Natasha laughed. “You need to go to sleep.”

“Look at you. Look at me. But mostly look at you. We’d be great together.”

“Clint. No. Sleep.”

“Tasha-”

“Stop talking, Clint.” All amusement had disappeared from her voice.

“So that’s that. Tomorrow morning is going to suck,” Clint said philosophically, his mind too fuzzy to process the rejection.

“Don’t worry. You’re too drunk to remember this conversation in the morning, and I’ll pretend to forget.” Natasha turned out the living room light and retired for the night.


	4. The Wrong Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For alphaflyer's prompt "Nora X in Accounting has a thing for Agent Carl Y and sneaks a note on his locker in the men's gym. Only she has the wrong locker. Clint finds the note -- addressed to 'C', from 'N'."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to shenshen77 for the betaing and the cheerleading.

Natasha woke and knew instantly that something was wrong. She was sitting on a chair, instead of her bed, her mouth was dry and her limbs were sore. As she catalogued her body, she could feel the pressure of cords tied around her wrists and legs. As her head began to clear, her left shoulder began to throb, sending out a short burst of pain with every heartbeat. All in all, she’d been in worse situations.

The last thing she could remember was walking towards her room on the Hellicarrier. It felt like minutes ago, and the hum from the engines was still audible. Which meant this was an internal attack. She opened her eyes, looked down at her left shoulder and cursed. She recognized the impact of one of Clint’s tranquilizer arrows.

“So you’re awake,” Clint said. His voice was strained and he had his emotionless assassin mask on, the one that he showed marks and any handlers unlucky enough to take on the two of them. 

“Yes, I’m awake. Want to explain to me why I’m tied to a chair?” Natasha replied, testing her bonds. Clint did his work well, it would take her at least twenty minutes to break loose with someone watching.

“Protocol 14,” Clint told her.

Natasha sucked in a breath. Protocol 14 was for when she had been acting drastically out of character.

“What was the first thing I ever said to you?” Clint asked, his eyes intent on hers.

“Come with me if you want to live,” replied Natasha. The joke fell flat.

“C’mon Nat, work with me here.” Clint was genuinely worried.

“You said ‘Hey there, sweetheart,’ and I thought you were just another jerk. It was only later that Fury told me you were the one who saved my life,” Natasha answered.

“Our first mission together?”

“Doha.”

“Our first _real_ mission together?”

“Beijing.”

Clint looked caught between relief and fear. “That takes evil clones or memory loss off the list. Unfortunately it leaves brainwashing.”

“Brainwashing?” Natasha asked, stomach clenching with fear. “I haven’t been brainwashed, there’s no way.” Even as she spoke she knew it wasn’t true. Who knows what could have triggered her? “What did I do?” she asked. The fact that it was Clint interrogating her unofficially, and not a S.H.I.E.L.D. psychologist meant that Clint was the only one who noticed she was acting odd. If she believed in a God, she would thank him. 

Clint pulled a pink note from his pocket. “Are you sure you want to know?”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “I’m sure.”

“Dear C,” Clint read. “It feels like I’ve watched you from afar for an age. Working with you has been a delight. Will you be my Valentine? Love and admiration, N.”

Natasha felt slightly nauseous. “Clint, I didn’t write that.”

“I know. But you’re the only one who I work with whose name starts with N. And it got left in my locker. Therefore, brainwashing.”

“Let me see that,” Natasha said, frustrated. Clint got close enough to show her the letter. She examined it for a half second then jerked her head upwards, hitting him in the face, hard enough to show that she was pissed, light enough to avoid breaking his nose. 

“Ow!” Clint exclaimed, jumping away from Natasha. His left hand brushed his gun in a reflexive movement.

“That’s not my handwriting, stupid.” Natasha said. She couldn’t believe Clint had waved the spectre of brainwashing at her for no good reason. “Your locker is next to Carl Young’s, right?”

“Yes,” Clint said, cheeks flushing as he realized where Natasha was going with this.

“The same Carl Young who Nora from Accounting has been making eyes at for months?” Natasha asked, voice syrupy sweet.

“Yes.” Clint held his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry, Tasha. I guess I just thought-“

“Yeah, yeah. Let me go.”

Clint used an arrow to cut her bonds, shamefaced. “I’ve mentioned that I’m really sorry, right?”

“Occam’s Razor. Google it.” Natasha glared at Clint, then stalked off to her room.

The next day, Natasha opened her gym locker to find two bags of gourmet jelly beans with a card attached. The note read ‘Dear N, picked these up in the post Valentine’s Day sales for you. Please don’t hurt me. Yours, C’. She surprised her fellow gym-goers by bursting out laughing.


End file.
